


Flowers That Speak Their Own Kind of Language (Stories Woven in Braids of White)

by ohmygoshwhatascream



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Fluff, Geralt has fuckin flowers in his hair, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Has Feelings, Hair Washing, Jaskier braids Geralt's hair, Jaskier braids flowers into Geralt's hair, M/M, Soft Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, The Language of Flowers, and boy does he have a lot of them, jaskier is buff you cowards
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-27
Updated: 2020-01-27
Packaged: 2021-02-27 05:27:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,856
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22441807
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ohmygoshwhatascream/pseuds/ohmygoshwhatascream
Summary: Geralt honestly couldn't care less about the state of his hair, but Jaskier seems to get pretty worked up about it all.Alternatively, Jaskier washes Geralt's hair and braids flowers into it.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 40
Kudos: 762





	Flowers That Speak Their Own Kind of Language (Stories Woven in Braids of White)

**Author's Note:**

> The third and final Geraskier fic of the day. 
> 
> I got so many comments on Rules and Regulations about Jaskier braiding flowers into Geralt's hair and honestly, I didn't plan to go anywhere with that idea but y'all broke me and I had to fuckin do it. 
> 
> So here it is, the Geralt with flowers in his hair fic that the world truly needed. Also, I couldn't be bothered to check if the flowers Jaskier uses are in bloom at the same time of the year, so just dispel your disbelief for that one.
> 
> ALSO MASCULINE JASKIER IS MY NEW FAVOURITE THING AND FUCK MAN

Geralt, at some point during their travels, eventually resigns himself to Jaskier's seeming obsession with cleanliness.

_ Obsession _ is probably the wrong word to use, really; but Jaskier is certainly a lot more concerned over the whole thing than Geralt has ever been. Not that that's a hard thing to do, considering Geralt's perfectly happy to walk around covered in all the shit he gets on him during his travels. It stopped bothering him a long time ago, he's just  _ used _ to smelling like a dead animal by this point.

But Jaskier's obsession, it's not a bad thing, not really. For starters, humans are pretty fragile creatures and Geralt knows all too well how easy it is for them to succumb to disease. Being clean reduces that chance; it's safer, it'll help keep Jaskier healthy. (And Geralt wants that. He wants Jaskier around for as long as possible) Furthermore, it  _ is _ , in fact, much nicer to walk around without monster guts tangled in your hair and blood smeared all over your face; (who would have guessed?) and - although he will never admit it - Jaskier runs the most  _ glorious _ baths. 

Geralt had never truly appreciated the finer aspects of a bath until he'd met Jaskier, but now he finds himself willing to pay extra at the inns they stay at, just to have that opportunity to soak weeks of dirt and grime and stress and tension away, surrounded by the calming scents of jasmine and chamomile and anything else Jaskier decides will work nicely together. (He has good senses when it comes to the finer things in life, always looking to make a luxury out of the little they have)

So Geralt can put up with Jaskier's insistence over baths. But when it comes to his hair… 

Jaskier is  _ always _ moaning about that. Says that Geralt's half-assed bun is a waste of perfectly wonderful hair. Geralt doesn't see the point in making an effort. It's going to get ruined eventually, there's no point in trying to make his hair look nice when it'll all be covered in shit by the end of the day.

But Jaskier pesters and pesters. He  _ goes on and on _ , every second of every day he just  _ talks _ about Geralt's goddamn hair and what a wasted opportunity it is. 

So,  _ eventually,  _ Geralt surrenders. He lets Jaskier do what he wants and hopes to god that, now he's let him do this, he'll eventually let him have some peace and quiet. (Of course, he knows that there will  _ never  _ be peace and quiet as long as Jaskier is around, although the idea of a bit of silence comes as a nice thought)

So, every other week or so, or any time they can afford to properly clean themselves, Jaskier will fiddle around with Geralt's hair, doing…  _ things. _

Geralt doesn't really  _ know _ exactly what Jaskier is doing. Mirrors are a luxury that they can't afford (also Geralt doesn't give a damn what he looks like anyway, so why would he waste money on something he'd literally never use?) and Geralt can only try to guess at what Jaskier is doing through touch alone. 

He surmises it's something to do with braids, tied together at the back in a knot or something. Geralt honestly doesn't know, he literally  _ does not care _ at all. Hair terminology isn't something he's familiar with, nor is it something he wants to get familiar with. 

It's just hair. To him, it makes no difference how it's styled or whether its neat and tidy or matted and unruly, as long as it doesn't get in the way when he's fighting, Geralt honestly couldn't care less.

But what he  _ does  _ care about is the strange intimacy of the whole thing.

Having someone wash your hair, (for Jaskier's taken to doing that now too, after he'd complained one too many times that Geralt had not' actually cleaned his hair out _properly_ ) and having someone braid it, is… well, it's an interesting experience. It's close, he can feel Jaskier's breaths warm on his neck, can feel his fingers tracing the tips of his ears. It's contact, touch, and it _burns_ , an addictive sort of touch that isn't driven by lust, isn't driven by sex, just… friendship. _Kindness._ Geralt never wants it to end.

And then when it comes to the washing... well, they're both pretty much naked. If they're lucky enough to be staying at an inn, it'll be Geralt in the bath and Jaskier clothed, although less so than usual, standing behind him. If they're out in the wilderness, as they usually are, it's just easier to have them both wash at the same time.

So, in essence, no matter the situation, Geralt is  _ always  _ naked. 

Which wouldn't usually be a problem. Geralt's no stranger to nudity and he's certainly got no qualms about his own appearance; neither does he care what other people think about his looks, he's not vain like that. He simply  _ doesn't care. _ And then, in comparison, Jaskier is simply  _ Jaskier.  _ Utterly shameless. He's definitely taken his fair share of peeks when he thinks Geralt isn't watching. Even so, that's just  _ Jaskier,  _ Geralt would be more worried if he  _ didn't  _ try and sneak a glance. So there were no reasons for anything to feel out of the ordinary, there was no reason for anything to feel strange or different or uncomfortable.

But it turns out that Geralt  _ really likes _ getting his hair washed. Maybe a bit too much.

He can't really explain why, but there's something so relaxing, so safe and gentle and calming about Jaskier's fingers tangled in his hair, massaging carefully at the scalp. He's always  _ so _ gentle with him, never pulling or tugging at the clumps of blood and guts. When Geralt washes, he washes merely for function. He does not care about the pains in his scalp as he scrubs out weeks worth of grime, he doesn't care about the tangle of his hair or the fact that, when he pulls too hard, he can pull whole clumps of white hair, all at once. (He's got a lot of hair, he'll be fine. And even if it wasn't fine, it's just hair; it'll grow back)

Jaskier wasn't like that. He removed the tangles and knots and clumps of matted and dried blood with gentle motions, soaking the hair until the dirt and grime were softened and could be easily be removed and washed away, pain-free. His fingers would massage at Geralt's scalp, travel down the back of his neck and loosen the tight muscles on his shoulders. To comfort, to be kind, just because he wanted to. No ulterior motives, no reasons behind his actions. He simply  _ did _ because he wanted to and there didn't need to be any reasons behind that.

It was nice.  _ More _ than nice.

And when they were at an inn, the room would be alive with the heady senses of lavender and chamomile, overpowering in their potency, cloying and thick and aphrodisiac-like in their fragrance. If they were out in the wild, a very naked Jaskier would be standing behind Geralt, body gradually coming closer and closer to the bare skin of his back, yet never close enough to touch. Tantalising in its distance, addictive in its ghost-like trace.

It was only natural that all these various things might have some… adverse effects. Particularly on a very specific part of Geralt's anatomy. 

If it had been anyone else other than Jaskier, Geralt would have acted on this sort of thing by now. He was never one for modesty, never one for pretending something didn't exist in the hope that, eventually, the problem would simply go away.

Yet with Jaskier, it's all different.

They're friends, although Geralt is loath to admit it. Close friends. Jaskier's the one person who's stuck by his side for years, never once taking advantage or using Geralt in any way shape or form. They are equals in their relationship, and they treat each other as such.

Jaskier was 18 when they first met, barely an adult. He'd been naive, immature. Not quite ready for the harsh realities of the real world. He'd had his lute and some grand ideas, dreams of a fantasy life where the seams would be pulled together, stitched to perfection; with not one hardship in sight. He'd travelled along with Geralt with not a second thought to his safety in the hopes of finding stories to share, a muse to follow and inspire and help him  _ create. _

But when he'd got his stories, got the lyrics for his songs and the fame he so desired, he'd still stuck around. He just had never bothered leaving. Sure, they'd split off from one another frequently, with gaps that could span anywhere from a few weeks to even a year, but they always found one another again. As if drawn to each other, Geralt would look up from his pint and find a pair of blue eyes sparkling at him.

It's a decade later, he's 28 now, and he's  _ different _ .

There are lines around his eyes now, not too many for he is still a young man in the grand scheme of things, but enough that Geralt knows time has passed; knows that the world has changed and Jaskier has changed with it. When he smiles, as he does so often, crows feet make their mark. There's something about it that Geralt finds incredibly attractive. They're lines of happiness, marks that - although things may have not turned out perfectly - show Jaskier's life had been full of joy. 

He's grown into himself more now, as well. Where his long limbs had once seemed gangly and clumsy, he has now become svelte and slender. His shoulders have broadened considerably, strong and heavyset, something that suits the squareness of his jaw and the sharp angles of his cheekbones. His hair is longer, gathering just below his ears in tawny curls, and it's lighter than it once was, streaks of golden where the sun has bleached it.

He's more muscular than he once was too, and while it's not  _ obvious  _ muscle _ ,  _ not like Geralt who's broad and wide and so  _ obviously  _ powerful you'd be a fool to miss it, but it is a strength of a quiet thing. It does not demand your attention and once could miss it if they were not looking, but there are hard muscles packed beneath his skin, not overly large yet just enough that you  _ know _ Jaskier can hold himself in a fight. He's stronger, yet no less graceful. He's light on his feet and quick-moving, a good dancer, full of energy. He is grace and poise, his movements always cocksure and confident. He  _ knows  _ he's attractive and he has no qualms of showing himself off. (Him and his ridiculously tight trousers. Completely impractical things, but they certainly don't leave much for the imagination, which Geralt really can't complain about)

And, on the frequent occasions Geralt has seen him completely unclothed, the sight is no less disappointing.

In short, Jaskier is attractive. Very much so, and Geralt only has so much self-control. 

Geralt has watched Jaskier change, grow from a naive adult with almost no knowledge of the real world to a dependent, trustworthy man who Geralt honestly couldn't picture his life without.

He doesn't want to ruin things. He doesn't want to ruin _ this _ .

So he lets Jaskier wash his hair, he breathes in the lavender and chamomile and tilts his head back as he dozes, he tries to pretend that Jaskier isn't  _ naked and wet,  _ stood so close behind him that all he'd have to do is take a step back and they'd be touching…

He ignores it and life continues. Jaskier continues washing his hair because Geralt doesn't have the heart to tell him to stop and Geralt just continues to do what he does best; pretend his emotions don't exist and he can just bottle them up forever.

So the hair-care (as Jaskier now refers to it as) continues. Jaskier braids it and Geralt thanks him and tries to ignore the tingles that run down his spine when Jaskier's hands are at his scalp, long fingers tangled and brushing against the nape of his neck. 

He likes the contact, the touch. He likes feeling someone else's skin against his own. To feel something done out of kindness, something soft and innocent and with the intent to please.

But then, during a stay at a particularly pleasant inn, (Jaskier had been growing vastly in popularity, money was much easier to come by now, much easier than it once had been) things shift.

It's all normal at first. Jaskier prepares Geralt's bath, does all the fancy stuff with the bath salts and the nice scents, he gets the temperature just right because Jaskier is literally a  _ bath wizard _ and it's all  _ normal. _

Jaskier lets Geralt wash first, averting his eyes away in what he probably thinks is politeness every time Geralt looks up, but he can  _ feel  _ Jaskier's eyes on him when he looks away once more. Jaskier is  _ shit  _ at being secretive. He can't hide his emotions  _ at all,  _ something which Geralt has come to find commendable (sometimes it is braver to  _ feel _ than it is to hide) but in moments like this he finds it all a bit amusing. For all of Jaskier's painful obviousness, however, he still doesn't know what the  _ look _ means. He knows Jaskier is, quote 'a lover of all things beautiful' and Jaskier has called him beautiful, or variations of the word, countless times. But Jaskier compliments everyone, he could literally flirt with a wall; in fact, Geralt thinks that he's done that before, once when he'd drank far too much. So maybe the look is just Jaskier being a horny bastard. Or maybe it's something else. Whatever it is, it's still normal for them. This is how it's been for a long time now, lingering glances and averted gazes.

He eventually finishes cleaning himself and Jaskier arrives at his usual position, no prompt needed, (he'd definitely been watching, then) behind Geralt as he soaks the tangled clump of hair, loosening all the blood and grime and shit clogging it up. 

Geralt pretends he's not slightly aroused by it all and pretends it's not him who's growling low in his throat like some fucking purring cat when Jaskier's hands massage gently against his scalp. The usual. And then, all too soon, it's over. Geralt's hair is clean and Jaskier's hands withdraw, their magic touch fading along with it. 

Geralt moves to stand, water cascading off of his body, taking the towel that Jaskier hands him absentmindedly. He hums in thanks, roughly towelling his hair as dry as he can get it, before drying the rest of himself. He watches for a moment as Jaskier goes to rummage around somewhere, taking a  special interest in the tightening of Jaskier's trousers as he bends down to pick something up off of the floor. Geralt's not really paying attention, he's more focused on trying to get his hard on to fuck off, which had been half-soft but then Geralt had started thinking about Jaskier's arse and his mind had wandered and  _ fuck. _

He dresses quickly, wet hair dripping water onto his dry clothes. Jaskier tuts as he comes over, sitting Geralt down in their familiar positions on the floor, comb in hand, ready to do whatever the hell he wants to Geralt's hair.

"What the fuck are those?" Geralt says, freezing as he spies the bundle of colours he'd somehow missed resting besides Jaskier. 

"Well, Geralt, I believe they're called… give me a moment," Jaskier screws up his face, furrowing his brow as if deep in thought. " _ flowers. _ " He slowly drawls out the word, elongating the vowels and exaggerating the movements of his mouth in mockery, as if he was speaking a language he'd never seen before. There's a glint in his eyes, a smile toying at his lips. Geralt growls and his smile grows wider.

"The fuck are they for?" Geralt rephrases, resisting the urge to grind his teeth. 

"For you, of course!" Jaskier says with a cheerful shout, picking up the assorted bundle of wildflowers. "You'll look stunning, I promise." He continues to prattle on about some other shit, Geralt picks out words and phrases such as the  _ finer aspects of life, looking after yourself, enhancing natural beauty. _ It's a load of shit and it's the kind of shit that Jaskier spouts like the shit-making machine he is. Geralt's never felt such fondness for another living being in all his life.

"No." He says, cutting off Jaskier's endless tirade. "I- uh, excuse me?" Affronted, Jaskier looks at him with wounded eyes, the effect only slightly ruined by the grin cracking his face. "No." Geralt repeats, arms folded over his chest.

"Well.  _ You  _ told  _ me  _ that you don't  _ care _ what I do to your hair. You said I'm in charge and I can do whatever I want-"

"Didn't say that."

"Oh, hush, so what if the details are a bit off. But I'm putting these flowers in your hair whether you like it or not, I had to go out and pick them myself, Geralt! All this effort I've put into this, all this time and hardship and-

"Doesn't sound that hard to me." 

" _ work _ ," Jaskier grits out, blatantly ignoring Geralt's interruptions. "All this work I put into this and you say  _ no?"  _ Jaskier throws his hands up in the air in playful exasperation, voice steadily growing louder and louder. Geralt can feel a headache coming on. 

"Fine." 

Jaskier's eyes twinkle. The little shit knew  _ exactly  _ what he was doing.

With practised ease, he separates bits of Geralt's hair, running the comb through the towel-dry locks, movements, as always, gentle and sure.

He moves the bundle of flowers closer to him, fingers trailing over the stems as he inwardly debates which ones would look the best, and where he should be putting them. Geralt can hear him humming softly under his breath and he doesn't have to be able to see Jaskier's face to know that his tongue will be poking out the corner of his mouth, as it always does when he's particularly focused on a certain task.

"I got you some dandelions," Jaskier starts, holding up one of the yellow blossoms, showing it to Geralt as if he wouldn't know what a fucking dandelion looks like. "Aren't they weeds?" Geralt asks with a snort, lips twitching as Jaskier's hands tense.

"Weeds are just flowers that grow where people don't want them to. They're still just as pretty as all the others." 

"Hmm."

"And they're literally everywhere. That too." Geralt smiles despite himself. 

"I also picked some primroses, too. I even found some of the purple ones! And then there's orange blossom and some forget-me-nots."

"Weeds." Geralt hums and earns himself a half-hearted slap on the shoulder. 

Jaskier sings as he wraps the flowers amongst Geralt's hair, deftly weaving the stems in and out of each delicate braid. This style seems more complicated than usual, the braids feel tighter and Jaskier's singing breaks off every so often, a clear sign he's trying to keep focused on the task at hand. 

Geralt lets his eyes close, mind wandering as he simply let Jaskeir do whatever he wants. It's nice, all of this.  _ Relaxing _ .

The silence drags on, broken intermittently by Jaskier's low voice, singing some love ballad that seemed to be a favourite with the locals. Geralt had certainly been hearing it a lot as of recently. 

Geralt lets his thoughts wander aimlessly, a rumbling escaping his throat as Jaskier's fingers trace the tips of his ears. He thinks of the flowers, the colours and the petals and the bouquets that people make for lovers and those dearest to them.

"Don't flowers mean something?" Geralt asks, already knowing the answer. 

Jaskier freezes, his hands momentarily halting in their once ceaseless movement. "Probably. I wouldn't know anything about that though."   


"Hmm." Geralt responds, unconvinced. If anyone would know anything about the language of flowers, it would be Jaskier. 

The silence drags on, Jaskier's hands gaining a slight tremble to them. He stops his singing, his humming of senseless tunes. Geralt waits patiently.

"Well, I mean, uh…" Jaskier gulps. "Dandelions mean faithfulness."

"Hmm."   


"You know, because, I'm, uh, faithful to you and shit. They mean happiness too! And that's just a nice feeling, so… uh."

Geralt feels himself smile.

"And then orange blossom is eternal lo- I mean, forever. Orange blossom means forever." 

Geralt doesn't comment on Jaskier's stumble. He simply waits in silence.

"Forget-me-nots are... truth." 

Silence.

"Primroses?" Geralt prompts. Jaskier's hands withdraw. 

"I'm, uh, finished now." 

" _ Primroses? _ " Geralt asks again.

"I can't live without you." Jaskier says in a hurry, leaping up to stand. Geralt is quicker, though, and he turns around like lightning, grasping Jaskier's wrist.

He looks up at him from the floor, an incredulous look in his eyes. "You're... " He frowns, struggling to put his feelings into words. "You're a fool, Jaskier." 

Instantly he realises that was the wrong thing to say. His tone was too sharp, his words too harsh. Jaskier looks like a kicked puppy, blue eyes all wide and big and disappointed. 

_ Fuck.  _ He's not good with words. 

With a frustrated sigh, he pulls on Jaskier's wrist, dragging him on top of him. Jaskier yelps, free hand flailing about with a shout. He lets out a puff of air as he lands directly in Geralt's lap, legs moving to sit astride Geralt's hips. Looking up at him with wide blue eyes, shirt slipping and revealing a tantalising strip of collar bone covered with a spattering of dark hairs, ( _ fuck _ , who even knew chesthair could be that ludicrously  _ hot? _ ) Geralt lets out a growl. "You utter fool." He grunts, before their lips collide, hot and needy and filled with  _ want. _

It only takes a few seconds for Jaskier to come to his senses before he returns the kiss with just as much fire. His lips part and Geralt  _ tastes _ him, warm and sweet and just  _ Jaskier. _

They pull apart, Jaskier's pupils dilated and their breaths intermingling with one another's, chests heaving and hearts wanting. 

"Oh, fuck." Jaskier gasps. "Do you know how long I've wanted to do that?" He leans in for another kiss, teeth nipping at Geralt's lower lip, hands spreading over the expanse of Geralt's shoulders. Arms wrapped around his waist, Geralt pulls him closer. Heat thrums through them and Jaskier  _ moans,  _ a sound from deep within his chest that makes Geralt fucking weak at the knees. "Seriously, Geralt." He whines, bringing his hand to tug at one of Geralt's braids. "I think I've got a hair fetish or something, because oh fuck do you know how  _ hot _ you look with those flowers in your hair because-"

He's cut off as Geralt's hand reaches down, squeezing the bulge in his trousers. " _ oh… oh fuck _ " 

Jaskier pushes Geralt back, weight heavy and hot as he slides himself upwards, grinding his hips. " _ Fuck me,"  _ he moans and Geralt is more than happy to oblige. 

**Author's Note:**

> Jaskier's a pussy boy and changed the actual meanings of some of the flowers so for any of y'all who are sad like me and fuckin LIVE for the language of flowers:
> 
> Dandelions: faithfulness, happiness  
> Forget-me-nots: true love  
> Primroses - I can't live without you  
> Orange blossoms - eternal love
> 
> I didn't wanna use dandelions bc, like, it's kinda the obvious choice but they fuckin mean faithfulness and oh god i HAD to fuckin use em like.


End file.
